


in the still of the night

by jaradel



Series: Check Please Marching Band AU [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Marching Band, Fluff, M/M, Marching Band AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 23:13:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9209582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaradel/pseuds/jaradel
Summary: Check Please Marching Band AU. The Samwell Marching Wellies have finished their summer band camp. Drum Major Jack ruminates on the upcoming season, and gets some much-needed reassurance from colorguard captain Bitty.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally published on Tumblr on July 29, 2016. Chronologically it is the first fic in the series, though it was the third fic published.
> 
> Disclaimer: All characters belong to [Ngozi](http://ngoziu.tumblr.com), author of [Check Please!](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com)

Jack crawls out of his window and sits in the Haus Reading Room, letting the cool night air wash over him. Band camp is over, and classes start on Monday, with their first performance at the football game on Saturday afternoon. The band is ready; he’s not worried about that. Their last run-through of the program today was nearly flawless, an amazing feat after only one week. Sure, there were a few uneven formations and a sour note or two, but they have a couple more practices this week as well as sectionals, and he trusts his section leaders to take care of business. The band’s faculty directors, Dr. Murray and Mr. Hall, congratulated Jack at the end of band camp for bringing the band so far in such a short amount of time. Jack wants to bask in that compliment, but his ever-present anxiety just reminds him that they have so much further to go.

He must not have been as quiet as he hoped when he climbed out onto the porch roof, though, because the window at the other end of the porch opens, and a blond head pops out. Bittle.

“Hey Jack, everything alright?”

Jack sighs. Bittle is another problem, but not the bad kind, not exactly. Bittle’s wonderful – he’s friendly and kind; he takes care of everyone in the band. In the year that Bittle’s been here, he’s become the soul of the Samwell Marching Wellies, effortlessly doing what Jack has struggled to do for the past two years – be a friend, as well as a leader. Bittle completely turned around the colorguard program in the offseason, and this year he’s the captain, teaching new choreography and introducing rifles into the routines. Unfortunately, Bittle has a mental block about getting hit in the head by a tossed rifle, something Jack doesn’t quite get, but he understands all too well what it’s like to have irrational fears. Maybe he can help Bittle. Somehow.

“Hey, Bittle. Yeah, just… thinking.”

“Do you want to be left alone? Or would you like some company?”

“Company would be nice.”

Bittle climbs out of his window and walks across the porch roof, sitting down lightly next to Jack. There are a few inches of courtesy space between them, but Jack can still feel Bittle’s body radiating warmth. Yes, Bittle is a problem, all right, but he’s a problem Jack desperately wants to have, in spite of the rocky start to their friendship last year. Bittle came into band camp as a freshman, all smiles and Southern charm, with his pies and other baked goods that Jack felt were too distracting, not to mention unhealthy, for band camp. It took Jack a long time to realize what the real issue was: he was jealous. Jealous of the way that Bittle could talk to anyone and everyone; jealous of the fact that everyone liked Bittle, while they begrudgingly put up with Jack; jealous that Bittle became a leader on and off the field with no effort, while Jack had to work so hard to earn everyone’s respect. It wasn’t until the game against Princeton, late in the season, when Bittle caught his foot in a divot on the field during the final number of their program, twisting his ankle and getting smacked in the head by his own flag as it came down from his toss, that Jack realized how unfair he’d been to Bittle. And that somewhere along the way, he had started to care for him a great deal.

“Band camp went well, don’t you think?” Bittle asks, his voice barely a whisper above the breeze.

“Yeah, I think so. How have the guard practices been going?”

“Pretty well. The ladies are doing great with the rifles. I’m just so frustrated with myself. I can teach them the tosses and the choreography, but I’m still having trouble catching my own rifle.”

“You’ll figure it out. You know what you’re doing. Murray and Hall wouldn’t have picked you as the captain if they weren’t confident in your abilities.”

“What about you?”

Jack looks at Bittle, his brow furrowed. Bittle gazes back with those earnest brown eyes, wide and warm, dark pools that Jack wishes he could let himself fall into. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“I mean, are _you_ confident in my abilities?”

Jack swallows hard. What he wants to say – _Bittle, I think you’re wonderful, I love watching you work, I get so distracted looking for you on the field when I’m supposed to be conducting the band_ – pushes against the back of his teeth, sits sweetly on his tongue, but he clamps his lips down on the words, swallows them. He can’t, he can’t give himself away like that, not when he doesn’t know… well, he just can’t. “I, uh, yeah. Of course I am. You’re great at what you do, Bittle,” Jack says instead, dying a little inside at not being able to say what’s in his heart.

Bittle smiles broadly. “Thanks, Jack. That really means a lot to me, coming from you. I know we didn’t have the best relationship last year.”

“That was my fault,” Jack says quickly. “I was – well, my priorities weren’t in the right place. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Jack. I know I go a bit overboard sometimes. Overexuberant, some have said.”

“I think you’re exactly what this band needs,” Jack murmurs. He wants to look at Bittle, but he’s afraid of what his face might betray, so he stares out into the night, at the large tree in the front yard.

“No, Jack. _You’re_ exactly what this band needs. A leader. A great musician. Someone who pushes us to be better than we ever thought we could be.”

Jack’s heart feels tight in his chest, hearing Bittle’s words. He doesn’t deserve them, doesn’t deserve Bittle’s friendship. He knows that he’s made a lot of mistakes in his last two years as drum major. He treated the band as an extension of himself, rather than seeing himself as a member of the band. He still remembers, with a pang of guilt, seeing Bittle lying there, dazed, in the middle of the field. How, mid-song, he leaped off the podium, wove his way through the moving lines of marchers and scooped Bittle up off the field. How he had carried him to the sideline while the band, professional as always, played on. How he waited at the hospital while doctors set Bittle’s broken ankle and fitted him with a fracture boot, and took him back to the Haus for the night. How he had watched over Bittle sleeping in Jack’s own bed while he curled up in his armchair in case Bittle needed anything. How he had started to fall for him. 

“I – thanks, Bittle. I’m glad you think so.”

“Hey.” Bittle lays his hand on Jack’s arm. Jack tears his gaze away from the middle distance and focuses on Bittle’s upturned face, the way the breeze ruffles his blond hair, the freckles across his nose and cheeks, and Jack’s gone, he’s so gone. Bittle smiles softly. “I don’t _think_ so. I _know_ so.”


End file.
